


Without Packages, Boxes, or Bags

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Underage Sex, Voyeurism, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-08
Updated: 2008-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's growing out of Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Packages, Boxes, or Bags

**Author's Note:**

> Dean is 16, Sam is 12; if you are uncomfortable with teen sexuality please take care here. The title is from How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Thanks to my guardian angel for reading over it for me.

The Christmas tree, Dean soon realized, was a consolation prize.

For Sam's sake, he pretended not to see their dad padding around with his brow furrowed in concentration, gathering his things together. Sam was as aware of what all that stuff meant as he was, but just then he was so wrapped up in the tree that he didn't seem to notice Dad outside of the times he paused to demand, grinning, "Dad, remember when I made this?"

The Winchesters took little with them every time they moved. They had little to begin with, and every time they left town, they only took what they could fit in the car with them, which wasn't much. However, one constant possession that mysteriously popped up now and then, no matter where they were, was a cruddy cardboard box full of even cruddier Christmas ornaments. Dean had no idea where the box disappeared to from January to November, but even if it took some prompting, Dad tended produce it from somewhere eventually.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said cheerily above the drone of the weather report. "Wanna hang your reindeer?"

Dean's reindeer was an ornament he'd made in second grade or something, along with all the other kids in his class. It was just a cartoon figure of a reindeer Dean had dutifully scribbled in brown with a fat-tipped Crayola marker until he'd gotten sick of it and festively given the reindeer green and red stripes the rest of the way.

Instead of its own face, the reindeer boasted Dean's, cut out from a crappy black and white Xerox copy of his school picture and pasted on crookedly. He was missing a front tooth, which he'd lost his very first day in the class, scuffling with some kid who tried to push him off the monkeybars. He'd been the first in the class to get his name written down on the "I'm Telling the Truth! I Lost A Tooth!" poster with a smiling molar wearing a bowtie also smiling gaptoothedly. (Fucked up.) The whole class had respected him after that double feature. Not that it had mattered. By January, they'd moved on to Nebraska, and the only reason he remembered any of it, really, was because of this damn ornament. The whole shebang was encased in plastic that was scuffed at this point, and it hung from a loop of ancient, unraveling green yarn in Sammy's skinny fingers.

"Uh, nah," coughed Dean. He was getting up there in years -- seventeen next month -- but he definitely wasn't beyond getting embarrassed by the ornaments with his name on them. If he'd known that reindeer would be immortalized as an ornament and that he'd see it every freakin' year, he would've tried to do a better job. "'S okay. You hang it."

"'Kay," said Sam. Dean watched him pick out a place on their tree (kind of sorry, and probably the last one left at a Gas Mart, but at least they always got real ones by default) and hang it lovingly, then smiled in spite of himself.

"Gimmie a different one to hang," he suggested.

Sam rooted around in the box, burrowing through a clumsily-made construction paper garland that had been out of commission ever since Dean could remember, retarded-looking felt Santas with googly eyes, snowmen made out of wooden bobbins and pipe cleaners, and a bunch of other stuff they'd gotten at Goodwill or had been forced to make in various schools over the years. Dean briefly watched their dad pulling on a pair of thick, jarringly red woolen socks, his eyes glued to the TV, then grinned as Sam gave him another cheesy school ornament.

"Didn't this used to be a Cheerio tree?" he asked. It was basically decrepit; most of the ancient glued-on Cheerios had crumbled off the paper shape, and the ones that hadn't yet were threatening to. The back of it said _SAM W._ in tall, importantly sharp letters.

"I got hungry," joked Sam.

"This -- this is a work of art. It should go right in front," Dean teased back, and hooked it haphazardly over a sticky-feeling branch.

"Hey, _The Grinch_ comes on tonight on CBS," said Sam animatedly. "You wanna watch it?"

"Man. It really is Christmas," Dean mused, grabbing at one of those freaky google-eyed Santas and hanging it without any artistic sense up near the top of the tree.

"Duh. It's been December for like two weeks already. So d'you wanna watch it? _The Grinch_?"

"Yeah, all right," said Dean. He didn't really, but wasn't like he had anything else to do. Plus, he kind of took comfort in the fact that Sam could still get into Christmas crap.

Forget the holiday specials and endless commercials and scoping out lights on big houses through the car window on cold nights. Sam was basically the only thing that made Christmas into anything resembling Christmas for Dean, and in spite of a few Christmasses that had been sucky (there had been a couple where Dad was gone, one when they'd all been sick and sat around in a winter wonderland of used Kleenex watching football and eating mugfuls of Campbell's chicken noodle soup, and several spent entirely in the car), Sam could still get in the spirit like he had when he was really little and didn't know better than to get all excited about every holiday. He was growing up pretty fast these days, and at an age where he could act really mature or like a snot-nosed brat depending on his mood. Although spaghetti-thin, he still had a babyishness in his features, curl in his too-long hair, and a pipsqueakiness about him that made Dean long to noogie him.

"Me and Dean are gonna watch _The Grinch_ tonight, Dad," Sam said over his shoulder. "You wanna watch it with us?"

Dean hesitated for a split second before hooking a plastic R2-D2 ornament from McDonald's or wherever onto the tree. He was pretty sure their dad hadn't ever actually watched a Christmas special with them. Not really. He'd been in the same room as Christmas specials, but he always had something more important to think about or take care of, and Dean had been his placeholder. He was pretty sure Sam asking him to watch with them was not only pointless but passive-aggressive.

There was a long moment of relative silence that stretched out beneath a cheery holiday Pizza Hut commercial and the noise of their dad tying up his boots.

"Can't tonight, Sammy," he said, then, not looking at either of them. "I got a lot of ground to cover."

Dean could hear the annoyance in Sam's voice. "You're leaving?"

"Bobby called," said Dad, gruff and absolute. "There's a job up in Minnesota."

Sam's response was to crouch down at the box and throw the ornament he was holding, an angel with yarn hair and pink circles painted on its cheeks, back into it disgustedly.

"You gonna run into snow up north?" Dean asked. "Hey, Sammy, look alive. Gimmie somethin' to hang."

 

 

Dad was barely out the door -- had only been gone fifteen minutes -- when Sam rounded on him, big-eyed and earnest, sitting up shock-straight on the couch right in the middle of his show.

"Hey - wanna go do stuff? Like, jerk off?"

Dude.

Dean picked his head up off the dented back of their second-hand couch and stared at him, body lifting up into a painful awareness of Sam's proximity and body heat. Behind them, the Christmas tree -- well, it didn't really glitter, but it was a pleasantly colorful tangle, all those crappy old ornaments as much family as Bobby and Pastor Jim. In front of them were their plastic dinner plates, orangey smears of macaroni and cheese still visible, in a stack next to their propped-up feet there on the crate they were using for a coffee table. The TV set, the kind that was so old that everything on the screen looked green and there was a massive gold antenna crowning the whole shebang, lost reception and rolled every thirty seconds.

"Dude," Dean laughed, kind of helplessly, and tilted his head towards the TV. "What about _The Grinch_?"

"But Dad's gone," said Sam in a whisper, as if Dad wasn't actually.

"He's only been gone for a few minutes, Sammy," said Dean. He was vaguely trying to keep a grip on the reality of the situation, brain not yet willing to believe Sam actually wanted to screw around even though his body was already responding to the idea.

Sam sighed, a hard little annoyed puff of breath, then slumped back and let his head roll onto Dean's shoulder.

Even that small touch seemed weighty and exciting. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd felt Sam up against him like that. Well, actually, he could -- it had just been forever. The last time they'd done anything was when the school year had started up, right when they'd settled in this apartment, and Sam had crept over into Dean's tiny old twin bed after lights out to mutter with him about their new school and wound up falling asleep there with him. For the longest time, Dean thought he could smell Sam's hair on his pillowcase. It had taken days for the smell to disappear and for him to get over it and chuck it into the wash.

Slowly, Dean moved his hand over and tucked it around Sammy's knee, feeling the inseam of his jeans under his fingertips as he gave Sam a ginger, almost reluctant squeeze, full of want.

They didn't jerk off together when Dad was around. Most of the time they couldn't get away with it anyway, and when they probably could, a good deal of the time Dean just didn't let himself start thinking about it at all. Even though Sam didn't seem to harbor any guilt or hesitations, it wasn't his job to worry about stuff like that. It was Dean's. It wasn't that Dean felt guilty; he didn't buy into all that Catholic guilt crap. There wasn't anything wrong with letting Sam see him jerk off, he didn't think. It wasn't wrong to encourage him, let him know it was all right to do it. Who else was going to watch out for him and answer all his questions about the birds and the bees and stuff? It's just that he wasn't about to let Dad catch them at it, and he wasn't about to let Sam get a real idea of what a freak he was for always wanting to do it, either.

 _The Grinch_ had gone to commercial and then come back on again by the time Dean surfaced a little from only being able to think about Sam asleep next to him, their body heat mingled into one thick glow, one smell.

"So, you wanna?" he asked slowly, heat pushing into his face.

"D'you wanna?" Sam returned, looking up at him with a suspicious squint to his eyes.

"Yeah."

With fingers impossibly skinny, Sam reached up and grabbed at Dean's bicep, his chin moving against the t-shirt covering Dean's shoulder as he spoke. "Just -- I wanna show you somethin'."

"Yeah? What's that?" asked Dean fondly. "You get another A-plus?"

"C'mon."

Even with the tangible feeling that Dad might've forgotten something and could come clomping back through the door at any moment, Dean could've gotten off right then and there -- just whipped it out, sitting on couch with _The Grinch_ on and the song about seasick crocodiles blaring right in front of his face -- but he willingly pushed himself up off the couch and followed Sammy to their room a mere few steps away.

Like most of their bedrooms, it was barely lived in, the only real sign of life the dirty clothes hanging over the side of their plastic hamper and the comic book Sam was re-reading laying on the floor between their beds. Their beds (two old twin mattresses propped up in ancient frames) and the clap-trap dresser out of which they lived were crammed into the room like sardines in a can. Deodorant and all that kind of stuff sat on the 80s dresser, a clear line between all Dean's hair stuff on the right and Sam's lone SportStick and comb on the left. The walls and ceiling were a stark white, and that kind of material that was all lumpy like cottage cheese, sort of unfriendly. Still, it felt way bigger than the back seat of the car, having his own bed was always awesome, and it already felt as much like home as anywhere else ever had.

It was already dark outside, and their room was dark, too. The overhead light had burned out a week ago and no one had made time to buy new light bulbs yet. It was always like that. But light was cutting in through the doorway, leaving a lengthy yellow rectangle striped across the room and the corners steeped in shadow, so it was just light enough to see his way, see what Sam was doing. Dean watched Sam immediately drop himself onto Dean's bed and attack his own fly, bypassing the ancient brown and red striped sweater he was wearing, which had probably come from some thrift store and smelled kind of like someone's grandma's closet.

"Do I got the good mattress this time or somethin'?" asked Dean, but he didn't really care. All he could think was that his sheets and pillow were gonna smell like Sam -- this babyish smell of soft skin and hair that hadn't been ground away by the ugly side of puberty yet -- and it was making him feel eager, predatory. "Dude, get rid of the sweater."

There was a beat where Sam stopped, fly down, the white elastic band of his underwear visible, and looked up at him uncertainly.

"You wanna get naked?" he asked, and it sounded so -- like, fuckin' perverted like that, even though he'd heard Sam say _naked_ before and seen him that way about a thousand times, especially when he was little. He wasn't that little now, though, and _naked_ meant something so obviously different.

"I'm not jerkin' it with that thing rubbin' my arm the whole time," said Dean, dimly aware that it was all just sort of an excuse. Usually, he and Sam were in whatever they slept in by the time they wrestled or whispered or jibed their way into jerking off together, like sweatpants or boxers. He always pushed his boxers down to his knees and let Sam see his dick, let him watch him jerk it, but Sam just usually pushed his hand down into his underwear, not needing quite the amount of room Dean did, and not being as damn shameless as Dean about it. "You can leave your underoos on."

After a brief struggle that made his ribs swell over his chest and his thin stomach sink in low, Sam got the bulky sweater and the polo he'd been wearing underneath it over his head, and Dean reached out to help him tug it off his arms. Static snapped between them, and as Sam worked his jeans down, Dean's t-shirt and dismal gray thermal quickly followed. Dean hardly paid attention to what he was doing; his senses were narrowing in on Sam, who'd already popped a boner in his tighty-whiteys and whose winter-pale chest was flushing over with goosebumps, big time. He could see 'em.

"Scoot," said Dean, and Sam scooted, peeling off a sock from one big foot as Dean crowded him on the twin mattress. Another sock followed, and was tossed in a grimy little ball across the room. Dean was still in his jeans.

"'S cold," Sam whuffled, and it was like a thousand other times in the back seat of the car or in backwoods cabins that didn't have heat. Dean moved automatically to where his blankets were wadded up at the end of the mattress and tugged them up to cover Sam.

"Wuss," he said, and listened to the responsive, "Shut up," as he and Sam burrowed down together. The muscles of their arms -- Sam's so stringy against his -- were fighting for the same space, and Dean could feel the ravage of gooseflesh on Sam's skin, feel his warmth even though he professed to be cold. This close, Dean could smell his hair and skin and breath, could tell they'd eaten the same dinner and that they used the same shampoo and soap. Sam still smelled sweet, like he'd smelled when he was little.

It wasn't that it was really unusual to feel Sam all butted up against him like this, because they'd shared beds all their lives, but Dean still felt alive to every sensation. The pressures were different when they did this. He could feel the weight of Sam's gaze on him already, expectant.

"You're lucky I didn't already jerk it today," Dean teased, the buckle of his belt clinking under the blanket as his fingers pulled it apart. "You're gonna get t'see a nice, big load."

"Gross," muttered Sam, as if he disapproved. Dean could feel the corner of Sam's mouth, warm and just a bit wet, moving against the muscle of his shoulder.

"Yeah, whatever," he said broadly, and picked up his hips as he shoved his pants down. "You love it."

"Shut up," Sam repeated, but without oomph. On his other side, his right arm moved, and Dean could tell he was giving himself an absent-minded grip through his briefs; his left arm remained still against Dean's, the fingers of his left hand curled there against the edge of boxers on Dean's bared thigh.

Momentarily, Dean squeezed his eyes shut, sealing away the light pouring in from the living room and making their doorway a vivid rectangle that burned through the darkness even on his eyelids. Dad was slipping farther and farther back in his mind; he heard something from _The Grinch_ echoing in the little front room, but it didn't stick at all over the noise of his own heartbeat getting clumsy in his chest. He pulled up his knees apart, into a comfortable, loose V, one of them resting lightly on Sam's, and pushed the blanket down a bit.

"C'n you see?" he asked Sam, tilting his head vaguely towards his little brother and feeling their hair brush together on the pillow. Then he felt Sam nod, heard the soft rustle of it.

It was important that Sam see; that was how they did this, why they ever started. That was part of what made it feel so good. The heady knowledge that Sam was watching him -- watching him hold himself, jerk himself and make himself feel good, and most of all, watching him shoot his wad -- always made it feel so much bigger, so much better than when he was spankin' it all by himself. Maybe Dean was just a fuckin' show-off, like Sam always complained whenever they were doing target practice, but letting Sam see -- _showing_ him his cock, showing the way he jerked it and the way he could blow these spattery, thick loads --

Just the idea that he was showing Sam was making him get stiff in his boxer-briefs like it jabbed a reflex in his belly.

"You watchin'?" he persisted.

"Yeah," Sam whispered.

Sam was watching. It pushed through Dean's body, tangible arousal that was strong and sludgy and hot and made him feel like he was the Hulk, or something, just bulging with veins and muscle and this powerful force inside him. He dug his fingers into the y-front of his boxer briefs till his whole fist was shoved in and wrapping around his dick. He fisted it for Sam, squeezed it for Sam, exhaled harshly just knowing Sam was watching him do it.

Against his shoulder, he could feel Sam's warm breaths, feel his chin just sort of smudged in against his muscle; he knew from experience that Sam was mimicking his movements. He didn't know whether Sam did that on purpose after a lifetime of following him around or what, but it always built heat between them heavily, like they were encouraging each other without saying a word.

Each bump of Dean's knuckles -- which were huge, anyway, over-popped and busted several times -- was visible through the stretched cotton of his boxers, and looking down his chest, Dean could see that his knob was obvious, too, especially if he really pressed it up against his underwear, lifted it up against the material for Sam to see. He was getting bigger and bigger in his own grip, and swelling from chubby to stiff, fucking _stiff_ , and feeling like he was gonna bust out of his boxers.

When he yanked his hand out of them again and pumped his hips up, thumbs hitching into the waistband at each hip, Sam's punched little exhale was audible in his ear and heat surged anew into Dean's face. They both watched him wrangle his boxers off his hips, his cock trapped under the elastic waistband for a too-long second and getting pressed down -- tenting them out massively -- before finally popping out and slapping back heavily against his belly, free. A shiver rushed over Dean's skin. He was next to totally naked; the muscles in his bare ass and thighs flexed as he let himself back down onto the body heat-warmed sheets, leaving his boxers at his knees.

He sucked in a breath, hearing the ancient TV set brassily drone, "Then he slid down the chimney -- a rather tight pinch, but if Santa could do it, then so could the Grinch," as he grabbed at his cock right there, out in the open, naked in a new way to the air.

Dean's arm flexed against Sam's, and Dean could feel him breathing, so warm, almost wet-feeling in the dry air, right there on his shoulder. It was all he could even think about even as he worked his fist in deliberate pumps -- Sam's breath. The fact that Sam was watching him. It'd been so long that he'd somehow lost the muscle memory of how fucking hot it made him just to know Sam was looking at his dick. Usually he thought about chicks, about fucking around with his girlfriend back in Ohio. Lacey. Her tits, the purple bra he'd kneaded them through, the way she'd gasped, "Oh -- _Dean_ \--" every time he did something she liked. He had it all locked away in his spank bank and it never failed, but right then, he couldn't even call it up in his brain. He didn't even think about it, actually. Sam was breathing on his arm. Each little huff made Dean think that Sam had his hand down in his briefs and was following his rhythm, jerking himself like Dean was, right there next to him, just muffled -- just covered by the blankets and layers of clothes.

Dean was fuckin' bare. Bare like he wasn't when he'd done Lacey -- then, he'd been wrapped in rubber -- but bare like he was when he showed himself to Sam. This felt better. This felt _better_. Sam was watching him.

"You doin' it too?" Dean asked, his voice tearing out gruff and low. Demanding, like their dad's.

"Yeah," whispered Sam, his voice lighter and just barely there, the word all wet and warm like a kiss on Dean's skin, like a lick.

" _God_."

It came out without his permission, just in the shape of his exhale, but it tinged Dean's skin with a self-conscious heat anyway. Fingers tightening, thumb becoming a rigid, stroking, pulling force in his grip, he doubled his pace automatically, the fingers of his other hand splaying over his own bare hipbone, reminding him of how startlingly naked he was. There next to him, Sam inhaled sharply. He was following along.

And every tiny molecule of cold in their crappy little apartment disappeared instantly, because Dean flushed over so hot he filled the room with heat, burned under the blanket tented over his knees, sweated against Sam as his eyes fell heavily shut.

"'M gonna," he gasped out weakly, the pit of his belly going tense the instant the words were out. More harshly, he demanded, "You watchin'? You watchin' me?"

"Uh-huh," Sam's voice seemed to form, this sloppy muddle that grabbed deep and dragged it out of Dean, made his balls jerk and the head of his cock throb with blood and the whole thing pulse in his grip as he shot out a load of jizz. It landed hot on his skin, thick. Dizzily, half unable to focus and half seeing it in the gory, glistening detail of memory and repeated experience, Dean opened his eyes and lifted his head, watching himself come, each hard sputter hitting him up the belly in shiny strings. His brain practically burned in his skull as he remembered, furiously pumping himself, that Sam was seeing each wad pulse out that slit in his knob and shine on his skin, drip and slide thickly.

It felt like he'd fucking come for an hour by the time it left his body and he'd stopped creaming his own stomach, and God, he'd shot off even more than he thought he would. It was everywhere, and it was sliding into his belly-button as he panted, and --

Sam could see it all.

"Jeez," erupted out of Dean's chest. He wasn't entirely sure whether he was impressed with himself or embarrassed for losing it that quick and that much. His chest pumped hard for air, harder than usual, as he surged with the adrenaline of blowing it like that for Sam. In front of Sam.

On his shoulder, Sam's breath was rattling, each breath he was slowly pressing out seeming to shake as if from the cold, and now that his belly was wet with come and he could hear over his own breaths and heartbeat, Dean was suddenly perfectly attuned to him.

"Sammy?" he whispered, and in response, Sam bit down on his lower lip; Dean could feel it right against his skin, Sam's lip and teeth. After a moment, he realized that Sam's arm was still moving. That he was still going. Still jerking it.

Blood pumped with a strangeness through Dean's veins, still hot and beating in the pit of his stomach in a slow but sweet pounds, but prickling his sweaty-feeling skin all of a sudden too. He hadn't really thought about it till just now, but Sam had always seemed done whenever he was -- that he was still going, and was trying so hard not to make a noise that his lungs were shaking was... different.

"C'mon, Sammy," he found himself urging, reaching over to touch Sam's hair before he could realize that it was kind of weird to do so. It was so warm and silky under his fingers that it almost hurt, in some bone-aching way, and Sam grunted in his throat, squeaky and harsh, like Dean had kicked him in the gut. "Yeah, c'mon, buddy," he repeated, intensely spurred on by the response.

"'M -- gonna, 'm gonna," Sam sobbed under his breath. Dean's own words back in his ear made him dizzy, made a dull flush of arousal crawl up his spine and his cock twitch pathetically, still mostly hard.

"Do it," he muttered voicelessly. "I'm watchin' you."

A whimper at his shoulder, so close to his ear, and a jerk of Sam's body next to his told Dean exactly when it happened a split second later, and there was an eerie silence as Sam's chest rigidly held in his breath and he went still. Dean breathed through the caught, obvious moment, fingers curling in Sam's hair to hold a gentle fistful of it.

After a few heavy seconds, Sam forcibly jerked his face out of Dean's shoulder and gasped over at the wall he was crammed up against. Dean's hand wound up clutching at his cheek, which felt little and hot and soft under his too-big hand, and he heard the breath, heard and felt Sam catch it and hold it again.

"Hey, 's okay. Make all the noise you want," Dean told him casually. "I do."

After an odd pause, Sam seemed to be able to take the advice and blew out a winded huff, and Dean let his face go, still thrumming in an unrecognizable way as Sam panted. He'd never heard Sam come like that; he didn't even really know if Sam ever came, since the point had always kind of been that he didn't shoot off like Dean did. The point was that he got to see Dean come. Dean couldn't blame him for wanting to see it -- he was too young to blow a wad like that, even if he was anything at all like Dean and had been touching himself for years. Dean would've wanted to know what it was like, too, if he'd been Sam's age and had the golden opportunity to interrogate someone about it, watch them do it.

"So -- is it just me, or did you totally nut in your underoos just now?" Dean asked, a teasing slant to his voice even though he was seriously curious.

"Shut up," Sam moaned automatically, his face turning toward Dean's again. He was probably wrinkling his nose or scowling in annoyance, but all Dean really saw were the fans of his eyelashes and the deep flush down his neck.

"So you did, huh?"

After a silence, Sam nodded, then breathed out a sigh. "'S what I wanted to show you... but yours is..."

Dean's heart forgot to beat for a second. Sam wanted to show him this? "What?"

"I dunno. I forgot it's all, like... thick. Mine's not like that." The sheepish note in Sam's voice was obvious; Dean could always hear it when Sam wasn't happy.

"Yeah, well, that's just 'cause you're not in high school yet," Dean said reassuringly, relaxing and scratching at his stomach. Everything was starting to feel kind of sticky and gummy and it was fading, cooler than the temperature of his skin, the shine of it dull. "It'll get thicker when you're older."

There was another quiet pause. Then Sam asked, "Can I feel yours?"

"What -- my jizz? Uh. Yeah, okay. It's already dryin' up, though..." 

It was weird -- the way Dean's pulse hammered in his chest and neck and wrists. It wasn't like that was any more of a gross abomination than jerking off in the same bed together was, he didn't think, but it still made him feel funny in some way as Sam reached over and rubbed skinny fingertips on his bare stomach. Kind of nervous and excited at the same time. And the feel of Sam's fingers sliding, slimy, through a glob of his jizz, spreading it over his skin, made an automatic jerk of arousal reverberate through his stomach, muscles tugging it low even as Sam touched it. Against his hip, his dick strained through another sensitive twitch. If he hadn't just blown his wad, Dean vaguely realized, he'd be hard just from Sam touching his come.

"Well?" he asked, after Sam made a small dissatisfied noise.

"'S a lot thicker'n mine," he muttered.

"Let's see yours."

"Oh, uh..."

It took a few seconds, but before Dean could prod him any further, Sam lurched into awkward movement and pushed the blanket down to his knees, the light of the front room catching his arm. Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, an intensity in his chest pulling him to rapt attention. Outside of porn, which he'd only ever seen an awful-quality video tape of once at a friend's house, he'd never seen another guy's jizz -- definitely not live and in-person, anyway.

Apprehensively, Sam shoved down his briefs -- which did seem a little damp at the hip -- like he was ripping off a band-aid, quick like a snap. To Dean's surprise, it was automatically obvious, jizz wetter and thicker on Sam's skin than he'd expected, glistening and pearly on the cotton of his briefs and catching in the light. His dick was the same intense baby-pink his mouth was, and the whole thing was shining wet, and he had a light trail of pubes that hadn't made it to his belly-button yet. A soupy dribble of jizz slid, even as Dean was eying him, down Sam's thigh, dripping off his briefs. It wasn't as white or globby as Dean's, but it looked like there was just as much of it.

"Dude. That's pretty thick," said Dean dryly.

"Ugh," Sam grunted, uselessly attempting to mop at himself with his wet briefs.

"Don't bother," Dean advised, and leaned over to grab at one of his abandoned shirts on the floor between their beds. He handed it to Sam, and grunted as he fetched the other for himself, "Here."

They wordlessly mopped themselves off, their bare knees and elbows hitting each other's, and Dean suddenly realized that even though his own underwear was clean and good to pull back up, Sam's was gonna have to come off, and -- then he'd seriously be naked, and another strain of arousal made him heave a massive sigh. At this rate, he was gonna get it up again before _The Grinch_ was even over.

"Dad's not turnin' back or he'd've walked in already," he murmured. "Let's lose the shorts."

"Okay," Sam agreed, rather more readily than Dean thought he might.

Dean's boxers were kicked down to the floor; Sam's were peeled off over his gigantor feet and thrown, and then Sam was tucking himself eagerly back down under Dean's blanket and pulling it up over them both. A grunt of approval found its way out of Dean's throat. The urge to wrap his arm around Sam and pull him in closer flooded through him the second his head was down on the pillow, but he did his best to stomp it dead.

"You sure you don't wanna go watch the rest of _The Grinch_?" he asked Sam uncertainly. They'd piled themselves together in bed a hundred times before, settled down and dozed off after whackin' it together, woken up having drooled on each other before, but without clothes on and -- for some reason, having seen Sam's jizz shining all over him like that -- it felt different.

"Nope. 'S too cold," Sam said, and shivered, pressing himself against Dean, so naked it made Dean shudder right back. Neither of them were cold at all. The pit of Sam's back was sweating, Dean found as he turned in toward Sam and wrapped an arm around him in a supportive hug. "'N anyway," Sam said muzzily, "I can still hear it."

"Yeah," Dean murmured, and momentarily tuned back in to listen as Sam's arm draped, lanky, over his side.

"He puzzled and puzzled till his puzzler was sore," echoed into their bedroom. "Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! 'Maybe Christmas,' he thought, 'doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas... perhaps... means a little bit more!'"

Dean tuned out again; he could feel Sam's heart beating up against his and briefly imagined Sam's heart growing -- growing -- breaking out of the frame like the Grinch's. Or maybe it was his heart.

"What d'you want for Christmas, dude?" he asked Sam.

"Uhh, world peace," Sam drawled sleepily. "A million dollars... a puppy..."

"You're a real smartass about Christmas stuff," Dean said. The pit of his belly was throbbing lowly, and he wasn't at all sleepy.

"Dean..." The tender, heavy way his name came out of Sam's mouth didn't help matters in Dean's gut; it was one of the things Sam did that made him sound a million years old instead of twelve. He was getting older, Dean realized suddenly. Hell, he'd just shot off in his underwear there next to him. It still smelled thick and hot and like spunk between the two of them. "I really don't care about stuff like that anymore. I just want Dad to be here."

"Yeah. Me too," Dean said softly. His throat felt thick with pride all of a sudden. He wondered exactly when this had happened to Sam. Not the I'm-so-mature sighing stuff, but how long he'd been able to _come_ like that. If it had been anything like the first time he'd wrung out a load, biting down on his breaths with someone snoring a couple of feet away. "Don't worry. He'll be here."

Sam's sigh melted down his chest.

"How 'bout you? What do you want for Christmas?"

"...A car."

That earned him a huff of amusement. "Yeah, okay. Like that'll ever happen. What else, besides a car?"

"'Course it could happen," Dean said, mock-offended. "Freakin' Scrooge McDuck."

He felt Sam's laugh rather than heard it, a shaking in his chest that didn't make itself known any other way but which pressed the old amulet he'd worn for a few years now between them tightly, and felt inexplicably warm.

"Uhh, I dunno. I can't think of anything," he murmured, and under the thick blanket, gave Sam a squeeze around the middle. "I don't want anything else."


End file.
